


(lift me higher) let me look at the sun

by MmArgent, queersardonicrat



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gay Disaster Andrew Minyard, M/M, Photographer!Andrew, Runaway!Neil, is the word fuck a replacement for a writing style, slightly aged up? they're around 23/24, soft andreil, unfortunate product placement, we dont actually know shit about film photography but we Researched
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MmArgent/pseuds/MmArgent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/queersardonicrat/pseuds/queersardonicrat
Summary: A rustling noise, followed by the tschick of a lighter. Beyond the netting, the flame lights up a face for a short moment, igniting a cigarette. Andrew pushes down.Click. He already knows it’s a good picture.---Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 45
Kudos: 172
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021, Andreil





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skvaader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skvaader/gifts).



> Our spotify algorithm will take ages to recover from listening to Who are you really? so many times in a row, but we had a lot of fun making this and we hope you like it as well!

The paint is peeling around the aureole, bright gold giving way to faded blue. Andrew’s camera zooms in, the light from the window is multicolor and blinding, shadowing the saint hidden just out of frame. There is a click, quickly followed by a huff as Andrew stands up, knees popping and back protesting. He eyes the colors from the new angle, but notices something wrong with his improvised kaleidoscope. A sourceless light is throwing white into the black edges, unbalancing the whole thing.

It takes him a few minutes to find, but it’s Saint Michael’s metal wiring, barely exposed where the tip of the archangel’s wing has started to crumble. It’s another clear sign of decay that has him raising his camera, the little plaque under the statue unnecessary for the shot but weirdly satisfying to add when a ray of sunlight covers the letters in soft orange. 

That handled, Andrew can’t really move a whole statue to get a better picture. He could, maybe, topple the thing off and pass it as an unfortunate accident. Andrew sighs to himself after that particular thought, remembering Nicky’s plea to leave the place as he found it, especially since Nicky was the only person with a key apart from the priest. Annoying light was better than sad eyed cousin without a job. 

He’s been here for about an hour, chasing beams of light around, waiting for the sky to change to get some shots of the room in twilight. There’s still time left before dusk, and after scouring the space for something to fixate upon he finally lands in a corner he’s been wilfully ignoring. The confessional.

Andrew would prefer to go into the priests' side for symbolic purposes, but the confessors booth is without a bench, which makes it easier to try some low shots, figure out what works. He closes the door behind him so the only light comes through the netting from the other booth. 

There is silence, heavy, with only his breathing being thrown back. The light dances and Andrew reminds himself he is here, not in some closet hiding.That the reverent silence isn’t a sign of unreality, or worse a product of a young boy’s fantasy. He clicks the camera in a shot that he’s going to regret as soon as he develops it, but it’s enough.There’s a cross carved into the wood behind him that would make for an easy shot, but Andrew doesn’t turn to take it.

The walls of the confessional look shiny, clearly painted over instead of replaced. The burgundy cushion at his feet has a layer of dust that puffs out when he prods it with the tip of his boot. There are worn areas in it, bloodier red yielding under phantom knees that haunt for absolution. Andrew kneels beside it, head bowed and camera up. There’s a succession of clicks, echoing back as he moves. He is losing light, slowly but surely. The withering wood on the corner of the upper part of the kneeler. The change of color where the second coat of painting started. The damned cross’ splinters. 

It’s shadow and moonlight that welcome him when he lowers the camera. Andrew cracks his neck as he moves to the door.

There is a click. And a creak. And another click. 

Someone is in the next booth. The priest? At this hour? He would’ve had more right to be here than Andrew, for sure, but Nicky wouldn’t have lied to Andrew about the priest being at a seminar. Especially when it could cost him his job. 

He takes a silent step back, raises his camera and points it towards the netting. A blocked outline. Shifts his weight, lowers a bit. Shuffles closer.

“You know,” says the shadow, and Andrew freezes. “I can’t imagine you ever stepping foot in this place.” There’s no way the voice is talking to Andrew, but he still feels called to answer. Maybe it’s because even in the dark of the booth he feels the heavy stone walls reaching for the sky around him, and no matter how much they beg with their anciency and ache there will be no other answers for the voice but Andrew. 

“After all, maybe you didn’t. Maybe I’m at the wrong place again and I’m talking at walls you’ve never even seen.” Andrew supposes this is where other people would think they really should say something, but he doesn’t really give a shit and this is at least somewhat intriguing. “I just don’t get this one. Fuck you, you know.” That probably rules out the voice, which definitely sounds low, but scratchy from lack of use, talking to God. Right? Andrew altogether avoids that kind of thing, but Nicky-osmosis has given him the impression that’s usually not the tone. 

“The others were straightforward enough, but I just don’t know why you’ve set this one up this way.” There’s the sound of a heavy sigh. “I… It’s like I can’t get rid of you.” Andrew relates. “You’re still in my head all the fucking time, and not even just my wiring, you still somehow drag me around on these...whatever they are.” 

A rustling noise, followed by the tschick of a lighter. Beyond the netting, the flame lights up a face for a short moment, igniting a cigarette. Andrew pushes down. _Click._ He already knows it’s a good picture. 

“What the fuck?” says the voice. Cigarette church boy throws open his door, and the steps move quickly over the floor. He’s already by the exits when Andrew follows out of the confessional. The moon frames his head perfectly when he opens the door, and Andrew can’t make himself say anything, he just pushes down again. _Click._

Library shifts are really not that bad when people aren’t being idiots. Andrew wouldn’t _tell_ anyone of course, but knows most people that know him have picked up on the fact that he’s comfortable there, shelving, putting up new displays, listening to books behind the counter, and helping out kids who get to have a place to stay after school with homework and finding the best fantasy series. He’s even comfortable with other people knowing this, as long as they don’t talk to him about it. Well into his twenties he’s finally aware that they genuinely want good things for him. That he’s content, and that Nicky, Renee, Aaron, and maybe even others are happy to see him content. It’s not a perfect life but it’s enough to be alive for. 

Except of course, days like this, when there’s an infernal ruckus coming from somewhere deep inside the library. The newspaper section, if he were to take an educated guess. The crackling of paper would guide him even if he didn’t have the layout memorized, the noises multiplying to add what Andrew has learned to identify as muffled frustration when he is close enough. 

The first thing that catches Andrew’s eye is the papers. Black and white articles half hidden over colorful pictures, yellowed pages spread over one of the couches.The other couch is empty, but there is a pile of haphazardly arranged newspapers next to it on the floor.The stands are half full, instead of an entire section removed. And apparently using one of the couches as support was a lesson learned, because there is a toppled tower that ends on the carpet but that starts on the center table. 

The eye of the storm is sitting with their back to Andrew. A head of familiar messy auburn curls is hunched over the table. The jacket slung over the back of the chair is well worn and nondescript. And one Andrew’s seen before. Church boy. Cigarette boy. Whatever. 

Andrew goes to knock his knuckles on the table when he notices he’s being watched back. There is the reflection of blue eyes, focused, on the metal that separates the stands. He sees himself freeze for a second, before he knocks on the wood anyway. Newspaper boy doesn’t startle but the headphones come off. He turns, and for the first time their eyes lock without intermediary. It’s intensely familiar, but Andrew knows they’ve never met before. He would remember. Yet, the brightness of his blue eyes against the rust of the hair, the set of his nose, the furrowing brows, all of it, is something Andrew’s seen before. Then he connects the dots.

Andrew is looking at the face of a dead man. He’s always believed in ghosts, but not this kind. _You haven’t connected shit,_ he tells himself. The scars covering almost the entire face are entirely new and different. Still, the boy looks an awful lot like the late serial killer Nathan Wesninski. 

“Take a picture,” mini-killer says dryly, “it lasts longer.” Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. There can be no way he knows it was Andrew in the church, and yet he can feel his pulse rising. Fuck that. He pulls out his camera from the gigantic black leather jacket he wears at all times. Nicky is convinced anything you could ever need in every situation is in there. He raises it to his face. _Click,_ it goes, at the same time as red dead redemption flips him off. 

“That’s going to be blurry.” Andrew comments, already knowing he still won’t get rid of it.

“But it will last longer.” Probably-Wesninski points out, holding his hand -more scars- out when Andrew adjusts the lense. “I said take _a_ picture. I didn’t sign up for a photoshoot.”

Andrew lowers the camera but doesn’t leave. He is curious. The jaw is different. The height is wrong. The eyes are the same. The hair is right. A coincidence. It has to be. 

“Do you need something?” uncanny valley kid drawls, eyes back to the table, headphones back in place.

_For you to make sense._ Andrew raps his knuckles against the table again, humming. “I don’t need anything. The library needs you to shut up.”

An eyebrow raises. “You’re the one talking to me.”

Andrew picks up one of the newspapers. Relatively new. “Your rustling echoes.”

“Your voice carries.” His voice is starting to sound more like it did in the church. More frustrated. Less carefully composed. “Leave me alone. I will fix this before leaving, okay? I’ll keep quiet.”

Boring. 

“No,” Andrew moves to the empty couch, sits down. Folds the newspaper. “Who’s to say you won’t leave it like this?”

“I literally said I would. Are you deaf or just stupid?” There is a notebook in butcher boy’s lap that snaps shut as he stands up. 

“I don’t know you,” Andrew explains slowly. “Why would I trust what you say?”

A sharp twist of smile. Fucking deja vu. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because you’re packing up as we speak.” Andrew says, motioning vaguely towards everything in front of him with no intention of stopping it.

The boy freezes for a second, jacket already on, before picking up his pen. “I’m not gonna work here with you watching.” He moves towards Andrew, cocks the head to the side. “You know what, I will let you do the cleaning up.. You look bored.” There is no smile this time, but the dull thud that fills the silence clues Andrew in on the fact that the haphazardly made tower is no more. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

“Bitch,” Andrew mutters under his breath, and spends the rest of his shift sorting newspapers. 

Andrew prides himself on not being easily scared, but he has _maybe_ watched way too many true crime docs the last couple of days to be inclined to go to the cemetery after nightfall. Maybe. Which is why he goes in the morning, as early as he can bear it. The grass is just on this side of unkempt and sticking up between stones, still wet and dewey after a cold night. Early morning sunrays glints off the green blades and creates the illusion of both translucent and all-encompassing veil over the world. 

He squats carefully down, attempting to keep his legs off the wet ground, and brandishes his camera like a weapon. Is he trying to catch the veil or tear through it? Could do both, if he does it in the right order. He stifles a yawn, seeing the grass through the viewfinder. It makes the world less vast, cages and cuts it until it fits into a little square. Not enough to fuck over the picture, but Andrew knows it won’t ever compare to what his memory can do. He wouldn’t have the memory if he hadn’t taken the picture, though. Would’ve missed the crooked blades, the ones trampled by people before him. Would have remembered only the enormity of it all.

Everyone already remembers the big things, anyway. Andrew likes gridding the world into tiny pieces the way he does with his food, making it small enough to chew. 

_Click._

There are easy ways to know which tombs are often visited. The flowers that don’t droop. The stone that shines. The sharpness of the lines between the dirt and grass. There are hard ways to know too. The unevenness of the dirt under your feet. The water stations with the most paint chipped valves. The path that has been crushed under too many shoes. That’s the one Andrew is following now, making his own steps next to someone else’s grief.

The sun is rising higher as he reaches the end of the path, the range of a life and the plastic roses perfectly arranged. He turns his camera towards the pale yellow light instead and finds something so much better to frame.

If moonlight had tried to hide him and highlighted his sharpness in its failure, sunlight bathes him and concedes its loss. The copper of the hair gives way to tendrils of fire, a halo that doesn’t peel away as he moves, that shifts to stay close. Andrew raises his camera. It doesn’t soften him, and it can’t contain him either. The light dissolves the stones around him as he walks, his strides sure. His jacket, the one Andrew has called unremarkable before, can’t engulf him like it did back in the library. Can’t diminish the airiness of it all. And finally, _finally_ , blue eyes that don’t see him, but so clear and so deep that Andrew feels himself drowning. 

_Click._

Andrew barely has time to lower his camera before the sprinklers turn on, and he has no choice but to raise it again. William Darcy (2005) is turning into William Darcy (1995) and it simply must be documented. A sizable amount of curses leave Mr. Darcy’s mouth by sheer surprise, turning repetitive as he moves away from the spray and fruitlessly pats his jacket and shakes his legs to dislodge the water. The jacket comes off with a grimace and then, there, the overly commercial and moronic action that should make the single man in possession of a good fortune look like a dog instead of a teen heartthrob in one of Nicky’s movies. He’s pushing his hair back and Andrew barely notices his index finger pressing the camera button several times in quick succession. 

“Are you stalking me?” Well, Andrew certainly has more photographs of red riding hood than strictly necessary. 

“You’re the one who keeps turning up at my photo shoots. Even at my place of work. Have you no shame?”

The guy is close enough now to see every single drop on his face, and the intense blue of his eyes. Andrew restrains himself from raising the camera, and restrains himself from looking too closely at the translucent fabric of the shirt he’s wearing. His refusal to break eye contact is the reason he catches a tiny glitter of something like amusement. Surely not. 

“Not a lot of it, I’m afraid,” and Andrew’s almost entirely sure that _is_ amusement, and it’s definitely an answer he likes, however jokingly it’s meant. 

“Me neither, I suppose,” Andrew admits. “I will get rid of them, if you want me to.” Fireboy looks slightly taken aback from the offer, and stills, considering. Then he frowns.

“But why did you take them?” _Because you’re beautiful,_ Andrew doesn’t say. 

“You just keep turning up in frame.”

“That’s barely true one out of two times.”

“Two out of three actually. Deleting, yes or no?” Silence. 

“Three?” 

“Yeah. I asked a question.”

“No, wait, what do you mean three times?” Andrew hesitates, the breach of consent glaringly clear now that he has to admit it. He opens his mouth, but ocean eyes (narrowing, narrowing) beats him to the punch. His jaw tenses before he speaks. “The church.”

Andrew nods. Shakes his camera to remind him of the unanswered question. 

“You didn’t really answer,” mariana trench says. “A question for a question. Why did you take them?”

“Because they’re good photos.”

“Humble,” he mutters. “I - I suppose there are photographers who find this kind of thing interesting, but I’d rather not… I’d rather not be your indie scarface.”

“What.”

Not Andrew’s Indie Scarface motions generally towards himself. “You know. Artists like morbid shit or whatever, right.” Andrew, does in fact like morbid shit. He just doesn’t count this as part of it. He clears his throat. 

“It’s the lighting. What’s your name?”

“What?” 

“Question for a question. What’s your name?”

“I thought your question was about deleting the pictures.” 

“You decided to rehash a question I had already answered. I chose not to.” Andrew resists the urge to sigh. Doesn’t regret the photos, but feels annoyed at not having asked first. “Deleting or not doesn’t hang on whenever you answer another question. You say yes, I’m deleting them. You say no, I don't. Simple.” Andrew clarifies. “That said, you did say a question for a question.”

He’s probably walking away from this with a bright future of coming up with more stupid nicknames.

“Oh. Neil?”

"You don’t sound too sure.”

“It’s Neil. What do you mean lighting?”

“It’s interesting.” _Like you._ “Pretty.”

Neil crosses his arms over his chest, the jacket hanging from one of his hands. “That doesn’t explain why I am in the picture at all.” Neil huffs. “Lighting is pretty and interesting, therefore your pictures would be pretty and interesting without me in them. What, do I add to the composition?” 

“...yes.” Andrew says. Neil frowns. “What’re you doing here?”

Neil visibly relaxes after the question, which Andrew isn’t expecting, but then he says “Talking to you,” which Andrew should’ve.

“Are you stupid?” He scoffs. 

“Yeah.” Neil is smiling now, and Andrew’s fingers are itching. It looks better on him than the last one did. Feels more at home with the scars and the slouched shoulders. More real. “What do you do with them?”

“Nothing, really.”

“You don’t post them?” Neil asks warily, smile dimming. His eyes flicker around Andrew's face, cataloging the nothingness in his expression. A second later, the arms fall, the stance opens and the jacket that hangs from Neil's left hand sways, barely skimming the wet grass.

Andrew waits until Neil's eyes meet his own. “No.” 

A long hum. “Has anyone seen them?"

“No.” Andrew hasn't actually seen them either, if he's being technical about it.

At that, Neil shifts closer. It causes the jacket to lower enough and graze the tip of the grass blades. Neil notices, rolling his eyes before he rearranges his grip on the jacket and throws it over one shoulder. Andrew follows the movement, the sweep of the fabric and the way it looks draped over the shirt, half covering it. The jacket is still wet. There is no way that's a smart move. Not that he's complaining. Neil did claim to be stupid.

Andrew's attention snaps out of that train of thought as Neil steps closer. He feels his own hands clutching the camera at the proximity, knuckles going white for the span of a second.

Neil stops mid stride, roughly an arm's length away, with his foot falling awkwardly into place. There isn't fear lining his body or caution shining in his eyes. There's… curiosity, at most. Calculation, maybe. Andrew is faintly surprised, he can see it, that what he thought was the fine print of boundaries, reads in neon colors to Neil. Which is more annoyingly clear when Andrew notices that the awkward stance i's on purpose. It's subtle, but Neil's torso is angled so it avoids blocking Andrew's possible path forward.

Andrew hates it.

“Can I see them?” Neil says, pointing at the camera with his chin. 

“Yes. Can I have your number?” Neil looks sceptical again.

“What for?”

“I’m developing the roll soon, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh.” Neil hands a phone over, and gives Andrew a strict look, as if he thinks he’s gonna take the phone and book it. Yeah right. Andrew can’t remember the last time he ran anywhere. He types in his number and pauses for a second before writing ‘Andrew’ as the contact name. Fair’s fair, he supposes. He hands it back, and Neil looks at the screen before pocketing it. 

“I guess I’ll see you around then, Andrew,” Neil says, and abruptly jogs towards the cluster of peach colored houses at one end of the cemetery. They’re mostly lunchrooms and admin offices, which Andrew knows from the one summer he worked here. It was sweltering and uncomfortable, but it was quiet and it built muscles. Neil looks quiet too, reaching the main building, small and all earth colors against earth. Andrew leaves. 

Andrew hits the light switch and breathes in deeply as he’s enveloped in total darkness. The nothingness of the darkroom is a contained darkness that is entirely his own. It’s a dark that instead of closing in on him, lets him cease to be. It washes over him like water, gentle in its indifference, and he becomes liquid in it. He’s just opened the camera when the door behind him opens, and he hopes he snaps it shut again quickly enough. 

“You’re lucky I hadn’t actually started yet,” Andrew says, and switches the light on again. No reason to talk in the dark for no reason. “What do you want, Kevin?” Kevin doesn’t look apologetic in the least. 

“I looked at your laptop. Why are you googling serial killers?” Andrew sighs, wondering when he became someone that accidentally left their tabs open. 

“For inspiration. Find your heroes, hustle, become them.”

Kevin leans on the door frame, bag on his hip and hands inside his jean pockets. The glasses he uses when revising articles are still perched on his nose, even though he’s supposed to be heading out to lunch with his dad like he does every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Meddling in Andrew’s business seems to have delayed him.

“That was research,” Kevin accuses. “I know what falling down a rabbit hole on purspose looks like and you’re trying to find something.”

“Sure, Kevin, you’re right.” Quiet triumph in Kevin’s expression, in the uptick of his lips. “I’m looking for Wesninski’s long lost younger brother.” Andrew deadpans. “In a case that closed more than five years ago.”

“Fine! Be like that.” Hands fly from the pockets so he can point at Andrew. It’s a mannerism that screams Wymack, but suits him so much more than the clenched hands behind his back that he’d copied from Riko. “But if you ever want to tell me what’s going on, I can help you with reading some articles, speed the process up.” 

“Don’t you have family bonding time?” Andrew says. “You’re going to be late.”

“First of all, I’m not. Wymack said the store had gotten a new shipment and we should meet in an hour instead.” He looks at his watch, nods. “Second, I’m not done with editing one of the newbies’ articles. You would think someone had to have taught them how to punctate stuff before giving them a degree. There’s potential there, but it needs to be polished,” Andrew moves towards him as he continues. “If they were willing to put in the work and accept criticism for what it is-”

Andrew pushes him out, Kevin stumbles, splutters as the door is closed on his face. Kevin thumps against the door, but doesn’t open it. Andrew hits the light switch so violently he hopes it can be heard on the outside.

“You’re an asshole!” The voice is muffled, but Andrew is still close enough to hear the sigh that precedes the next sentence. “I’m leaving in an hour. You can work there for as long as you need, but I’m taking half the day off to help dad with the store, so text me when you’re done. I’ll come back to close around five.”

Andrew ponders about the amount of photos he’s taken. “Come back at six, bring food and I’ll consider letting you help with the articles. I’m not telling you what they’re for.”

Silence, and then. “Deal.” A second later. “Wait, have you eaten anything for lunch? You can’t skip lunch, it’s not healthy. You can come with us if you haven’t.”

“Already ate with Aaron. Fuck off, Day! Let me work.”

Another thump to the door, lower, a kick if he was to guess. He shakes his head, huffs and tries to concentrate, to let the darkness wash back over him and leave his mind blank. 

It's a tried process. Andrew used to develop in black and white when he started, boxes of chemicals and a makeshift darkroom in the basement of the house Nicky and Erik live in alone now. Nicky used to joke that he should try to become a chemist and was so delighted when Aaron said he was going to be pre-med that he bought them identical lab coats. Neither of them needed them for a long time and when Aaron finally did, the size didn't fit him anymore. 

Now, the darkroom is what it was intended to be. Andrew knows it well, has used it to develop and print since Kevin got a job at the newspaper and he learned it existed. The equipment is old, but Andrew maintains it enough for it to be fit for use. This is where he switched to color printing. It had been a familiar dance with new moves to learn. 

Muscle memory guides him. There is no stumbling or patting of bottles, but the well known routine that makes the darkness the opposite of oppressive. The mask isn't bothersome anymore, even though the goggles will forever be, and the latex of the gloves is familiar, a shadow version of his brother's surgery preparation. The tables are sparse, positioned close enough to make the fast transfer he needs without unnecessary haste. 

So used to the harsh dichotomy of black and white, the colors had been confusing at first. His first years of printing, Andrew had learned that all is not as it seems; even black and white has room for the gentleness of gray, for soft blacks and blinding whites. During his first months of colour printing, he’d learned that colours demand a delicacy and attention to detail not only when it comes to time of exposure, but the adjustment and balance of the colours themselves. He knows he’s become a better photographer over these years, but mostly, he thinks he’s learned how light falls, twice over, somehow without losing interest.

If he were someone else, his hands might’ve shaken as he takes out the film from the last weeks. Since he isn’t, he places the first picture under the enlarger with steady movements. The thought, is, on the other hand, a clear sign of him wanting to get this right. Doesn’t he always? He’s both a perfectionist and amused by the unpredictability this craft grants him. Today, he wants it to be right. 

Still, he barely hesitates before choosing high values for magenta and slightly lower yellows for the pictures from the church, and the opposite for the ones of the cemetery. He thinks about cyan eyes, but knows it would just turn grey if he fell for the obvious impulse. 

He makes a quick test strip for the church pictures before adjusting the exposure and going into it without checking the individual pictures. He falls into the easy rhythm of it. Focus. Bath. Bath. Wash. Hang to dry. Darkness, different liquids and the dry line all neatly separate and floating into one mass of only movement and being but not more or less than being. He repeats the process for the cemetery pictures, and hangs them to dry. After washing out and emptying tanks, he leaves the room for a smoke break. 

Coming back, the prints are drying and looking good. Too early to say if they’re just right, and what needs adjusting, but Andrew wants to hold onto the nothingness of the darkroom a little longer, so he lowers some values in the hope of a slightly more extreme result, and adds a miniscule touch of cyan to the mix, and starts going through all the photographs again, now with the same filter on all of them. He’s on the end of the church shoot when the door opens and the room is flooded with light.

“Close the fucking door,” he says without turning, hoping against hope that his body will be enough to block some of it. The door closes, but he can feel the presence of someone else without feeling or seeing them. “Kevin, what kind of carnal torture will it take for you to stay out of here when I-”

“I’m not Kevin,” a voice he thinks about too often says, “but I’m sure I have some suggestions if you do go through with it.” 

Andrew doesn’t have time for this. Can’t spare even a second to turn around without risking the coloration even more. He blinks instead, dispersing the dots the sudden light brought to his eyes. 

“What do you want?” He’s thrown off, but his voice comes as sharp as he needs it, even through the fabric of the- Oh for fuck’s sake, maybe he should let Neil die of intoxication as payback. No, too much hassle. Can’t risk more light either. “There’s another set of mask and goggles to your right, be fucking careful and don’t touch anything.” 

A beat but no footsteps. “Those are mutually exclusive. I either touch things or things are going to touch me. I can wait outisi-”

“You open that door again and I’ll kill you.” Andrew interrupts. “Close your eyes and use your shirt to cover your mouth and nose.” 

At least there’s rustle this time. Andrew finishes the doomed line and resists the urge to rip it apart. Hours spent chasing perfect lighting for nothing. He’s practiced in ruined things, but the anger simmers under his skin all the same. He’s getting a lock for the door as soon as he’s done for the day, and he’ll install it himself if he needs to. 

Instead of starting with the next line, Andrew moves away from the table and goes to where the open carcass of his camera lays. There’s a chronometer in his head, counting down the seconds he has before he needs to go back to the filtering. He takes his gloves off, careful not to touch the outsides, and puts them on the table before crouching down and reaching for the plastic box where his personal backup is. He makes sure to take the safety glasses by the elastic and dangles them next to the mask. There are no gloves left, an errand he never ran, but Neil won’t need them. 

Andrew knows the layout of the room, can hear Neil’s breathing being muffled but rapid close to the door. He could give him the equipment, but there are tables near him and a rogue elbow or an accidental hip check might disturb the rest of the room. Andrew grits his teeth. Forces his jaw to relax after it.

“I’m in front of you,” There is no jump, no hitch in breathing, no knock against the door. Neil knows where he is or at least the generalness of his vicinity then. “I have the mask and the glasses you need to be here, but there are tables next to you. Can you manage to put it on without hitting anything?”

A pause. Consideration instead of instant indignation. Point for Neil.

“No,” and there’s a slight hint of panic in his next words. “I can’t see _anything_.”

Ah. Complete darkness. No getting used to it, no shapes to guide you. “Shouldn’t have come here,” Which isn’t the point and the chronometer is getting lower. “Can I touch your face to put this on?”

“What?”

“You can’t open the door without letting light in. I’m working with chemicals that could fuck you up.” Andrew’s voice is steady, no pressure over the words. Listing facts. “I could give you this to put on yourself, but you said you couldn’t know if you would bump into anything and there’s the risk of something falling over. You can keep on your makeshift mask and keep your eyes close. You can let me put this on you. You can do it yourself if you’re sure you won’t fuck any of my shit.”

Silence. Andrew snaps the fingers of his free hand. “Pick.” Less than half a minute.

A shuffle of feet, a there and gone touch to his boot. “Yes.”

There was only one question. Andrew reaches up and stops short of touching. “Can I touch your neck?” 

A second, a huff of a laugh. “Too short, huh?” Andrew doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “Yes, you can.”

Andrew nods to nothing and the warmth seeps into his fingers as they curl around skin. He tips Neil’s head down, keeps his hand there to steady himself as he reaches over with the strap of the glasses. The hair isn’t soft and Andrew doesn’t linger, following the elastic to the front. Falls back onto his heels as he feels under the plastic, the scars that he saw days ago taking shape under his fingertips. He follows the path of the nose and shifts the glasses until they settle in the right away. 

“Okay?” Andrew asks, to make sure.

“Yes.” Neil whispers clearly. He must have lowered the shirt, anticipating Andrew’s next move.

Andrew takes the mask and tips Neil’s chin up. He loops the elastic around his ears and barely touches the fabric, making sure it covers the nose and firmly doesn’t think about the mouth. 

“Thanks.” Neil says softly, and Andrew takes a step back.

He grunts in response, aware of the need for verbal confirmation in the absence of sight. Andrew puts on his gloves again and goes to his abandoned station, seconds ticking away in his head. His hands are still warm, and clamming up under the rubber. He extends his fingers to erase the sensation, but it sticks to his palms and snakes over his knuckles, curving each digit inward, solidifying into a loose mockery of a fist. 

"Can I talk without risking dying now?" Neil says. 

"Is that a possibility you've ever had?" A huff. 

“Odds may vary.” And before Andrew can question _that_. “Can I see the photographs after this?”

“Once they’re dry.”

“You always take photos of places without people.” Neil points out.

Andrew checks the cyan levels and starts with the next strip. “Don’t be so hard on yourself now, Neil. And you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead either.”

The squeak of a shoe. No footstep, though. “How do you find them?”

“Doesn’t everyone know them?” 

“So you’re saying the only places you go are the places I’ve seen you? Somehow I find that hard to believe.” 

“As far as I’ve gathered, you’re not much of a believer though, are you?” 

Neil’s blurry middle finger answers from under the lense, shitty artificial light not enough to cheapen him. The blue of the eyes holds against the extra coloration, intense even out of focus.

“Where do you go?” Real Neil asks in place of an answer.

“Oh you know. To the grocery store every now and then. Here. The library. Kevin’s dad’s store. Home.” Andrew says flippantly, moving to the cemetery vibrant greens and soft yellows. “What about you?”

“I mostly follow you around like a dog on a scent.” There’s no smile to track, but Wesninski’s mugshot flashes in his memory at the tone. Andrew shakes his head. “Where do you take pictures?”

“Anywhere. Mostly try to find places on the outskirts of town.”

“How do you know they’re there?” 

“It’s a small town, everyone knows this shit. The house kids dare each other to go into. The cave high schoolers party in. The graffitied skateboarding haunt.”

“Documenting adolescence in the death of small town America. Very artsy political.” The condescension drips from the words, the mocking praise poorly hidden behind it. Andrew suspects it was meant to be heard.

“Mmm. Why are you asking?”

“Trying to know where not to go so we can stop meeting like this.”

“My heart bleeds. How did you find me today?”

“Followed you in after your smoke. You didn’t text, so.”

Andrew stops. Turns to look at the darkness where Neil stands incredulously. “No, because _you_ didn’t text, you fucking moron.” 

"You said you would text me when the pictures were ready, why would I voluntarily engage in this battle of dry wits?”

Andrew’s type can’t possibly be this. “What the fuck dude. You’re the one who has my number.” Andrew says slowly, waiting for the pieces to fall into place.

“Oh. Yeah.” At the surprised realization packed into those two words, Andrew turns back to stare at grass.

“You know the thing where you text someone so they have your number? The thing that everyone does all the time?” Andrew questions snidely. 

“My number is exclusive information.”

“I’m honored.” Andrew deadpans. It hangs in the air as he shifts the film into the next photograph. “This is entirely your fault. And the pictures aren’t ready yet anyway.”

“They’ll dry though, right?”

“In like two days.” Andrew responds absentmindedly. Fire and ice are under the lense, claiming the space and making rising sunlight a backdrop.

“Oh,” again. And then there’s a rustling. 

“If that’s your phone, I will commit murder.” Andrew snaps.

“I'm starting to think you say that to everyone all the time, Andrew. I don’t feel so special.” The rustle increases, far too loud to be more than a taunt. 

Andrew is taut. “Shut the fuck up and keep your phone where it doesn’t light up.” 

“Okay,” Neil says disobediently, but the noise stops. 

A measured breath in. As long as he doesn’t take out the phone Andrew’s willing to put up with more of his stupid questions. 

They fall into silence in spite of Neil’s general aversion to taking orders. It must be boring to just stand against the wall, but Andrew’s getting used to the feeling of Neil’s presence and finally getting back into the zone. There’s only a couple of frames left when Neil speaks again. 

“Are there any blue buildings?”

What the actual fuck. “I suppose. Somewhere.”

"In town. Or that you’ve photographed.”

Andrew takes a second to think. “There’s the street they painted blue last year. Pretty ugly though, not where I would take pictures of you to match your eyes. They’re quite striking, you know.”

Neil ignores the comment. Maybe doesn’t even notice it’s there. “Where would you go?”

Andrew pauses. “There’s this club with a lighting system that’s been there since the eighties. Neon nightmare.”

“Where is it?”

“On main street, in one of the basements, but the owner’s set quite unpredictable opening hours. There’s a gig next week.”

“Like music?”

“Like music, Mr. Lives Under A Rock.” And because it’s the clearest opening he’s going to get. “About that, where’s your accent from?”

“Nowhere.” 

“Now that’s _my_ accent. Which is a slightly bastardised californian. Yours isn’t.”

“Not too far off,” Neil mutters. “Just lived in a lot of places.”

“Hm.” Andrew remembers the point on one of his tabs. Extrapolates. “Ever been to the bay area?”

“Once.”

Last picture. Fuck it. “You seem slightly familiar.” Neil’s breath speeds up instantly, painfully audible in the tight space. 

“Maybe I’ve got one of those faces.”

“Har.” Andrew steps closer to Neil, not trusting him to move without screwing something up. His breath becomes even faster.“What are you doing?” There is no tremble, only a warning wrapped around the words like barbed wire. 

Andrew switches on the light in answer, and there’s Neil, closer than he’s ever seen him, looking stupid in mask and goggles, but also. Decidedly not stupid. Andrew steps back, and starts the process of cleaning out the space. Emptying the tanks, placing everything where it should be. He’s done quickly, and turns back to Neil before taking off his equipment. Neil takes that as a go ahead on safety and takes off his, passing it to Andrew to deal with.

“You can open the door now,” Andrew says. His voice is slightly thick with the silence. He clears it while Neil opens the door, hoping it covers the sound.

Neil steps out and Andrew follows. The darkroom is too much of a room and not enough of a place under the harsh light. It looks smaller and clunkier, out of place when compared to the clean linoleum of the hallway Neil’s already standing in. Andrew closes the door as he steps out. The click isn’t as satisfactory as turning a key will be.

“I’ll text you,” Andrew says. “About the photos.”

“And the gig,” Neil reminds him. 

“Sure. But only if…” Andrew says, raising his eyebrows in clear invitation to an answer.

Neil raises an eyebrow back. “I think you still owe me, not the other way round.”

“Only if…” Neil looks blankly at him. “You text me.”

“Oh, yeah.” Neil takes up his phone and types for a truly disgusting amount of time. Andrew bets it’s not a long text, but just criminally slow typing. His phone buzzes in his back pocket. 

Neil waits but Andrew doesn’t move to check his phone. Neil shrugs, puts the phone back into his pocket and turns around. He doesn’t look back, disappearing behind a corner when he reaches it. 

A beat. Two. Three and half. Andrew takes out his phone.

_unknown number: andrew, this is my number. remember to text back so i can have yours._

Andrew saves the new contact. Doesn’t text back, but knows that he probably will before the photos are done. Closes his eyes. 

There’s something about Neil. Something that doesn’t add up, even with the threads of his Wesninski's theory in the back burner of his mind. Something in the way his expressions shift, in the smoothed out accent. And fuck, it would be easier to crack if Neil himself wasn’t so fucking interesting. If Andrew could be completely objective, instead of half tripping over quick remarks or sharp eyes that track him, but never cut him. If he could pretend even to himself that he’s itching to see the pictures because they could add to evidence, because they’re a bargain chip that he already gave away, because the motherfucking light was flawless in each one. But he stopped lying to himself years ago.

Andrew has always believed in ghosts, he should’ve known that catching one on camera was bound to haunt him.

The sound of heavy footsteps takes him out of his stupor, and he opens his eyes. Kevin is rounding the corner from where Neil left, arm laden with bags and a frown on his face. It doesn’t lighten when his eyes find Andrew’s.

“I brought chinese,” Kevin announces, raising the arm with the bags slightly. “I was going to text you to check what you wanted, but you never pick your phone when you’re in there anyway.”

Andrew starts walking towards the inner offices, away from the darkroom and the lingering presence of Neil’s leave. 

Kevin clears his throat as he follows. “Did you have someone else with you here?” He asks disapprovingly. 

“I didn’t invite anyone.” Andrew answers, leading towards the lunch room as they bypass the cluttered desks. 

Kevin makes a frustrated sound behind him. “I swear I saw someone leaving, but he was too far away for me to call out.” 

Andrew opens the door to the lunch room, hearing Kevin’s hurried steps when he lets the door fall behind it instead of propping it open. The scowl is more pronounced now. Andrew sits down. Accepts the plastic bag as Kevin sits down. The containers are warm. More so than Neil’s skin was. Andrew knows which he would prefer to be touching. 

“He was short. Baggy clothes. Brownish hair, maybe.” Kevin insists. 

“Eat your food, Day.” Andrew moves the moo goo gai pan towards Kevin pointedly. “The faster we’re done here, the faster you can get on reading articles.”

Kevin starts eating. Andrew takes a bite out of his own. He considers what needs to be done as he chews. Buy a lock for the darkroom. Organize whatever information they gleam from today and compare it to what he knows about Neil. Text Neil. Not text Neil. Text Neil tomorrow morning. Better to do it in the afternoon. Neil takes ages to text, though. Tonight then. Possibility of Neil forgetting to answer… High. Maybe Andrew should wait until the photos are done. Neil already has his number after all, he doesn’t actually need to text him back. But, it was kind of implied that Neil wanted him to text him. Andrew will need more information about Neil. Doesn’t even have an age to match him to any of his theories. Andrew will text him tonight. 

_andrew: why are you so digitally incompetent_

_neon nightmare: it all started when i was a child_


	2. Chapter 2

The theater is Nicky's idea. According to the zillion posters spread around town, the newest production was written by some german playwright more than a century ago, but Nicky had deemed it perfect for family bonding time because Erik had exclaimed happily upon seeing the name.

Neither of the twins had objected to it, too busy with their own bullshit to even consider it.

As it is, Andrew gets to see the blue street again. It’s still hideous. Better now that graffiti claims its corners and rude drawings catch the eye like a bad tattoo. But even under it, the shade isn’t right. It would clash horribly with Neil's ha-.

Andrew draws in an exasperated breath. His phone is turned off. The ouija board disconnected. So why can’t he stop thinking about him?

Theater should be a distraction, but it’s not really his scene. It’s neat in theory. A synthesis of arts of illusion, contained in a single unique experience. Like his photos, it’s slightly unpredictable, even when presented on the same stage, with the same script and an identical cast. It should be, on paper, something he finds entertaining. Instead, it’s a place where a lot of people sit silently in the dark as one big mass for hours, breathing, talking, existing too many and too loudly. So much for immersion. This is why he prefers watching movies at home. 

But Nicky had asked weeks ago, and he had said yes, so here he is. 

Nicky is walking a few steps ahead, arm in arm with Erik, having private conversations that turn general whenever they want the twins to feel included. Aaron, who’s not being haunted by ghosts, is on his phone, eyes shifting every three seconds to answer a question and study his surroundings. After all, he had learned the hard way that Andrew’s protective streak didn’t apply to inanimate objects, even less so when they provided such amusement as seeing Aaron hit a newly installed streetlight and  _ frown _ at it for daring to knock onto him.

Andrew, for his part, is ignoring his own level of sleep deprivation. Spring’s returned sun had given him the perfect excuse to use sunglasses, but not even the muted version of the world seems to be enough to deter his headache. It’s more annoying than painful, because Andrew knows he hadn’t needed to stay up all night. It hadn’t been insomnia or deep digging with Kevin that had dragged him out of bed. No, it had been stupid idle talk with Neil, who apparently texted faster without an audience, because they were both too stubborn to let the other have the last word.

Fuck. 

He’s supposed to not be thinking about him. 

Andrew shuts his eyes, considers his options and goes for the less painful alternative.

“Nicky,” Andrew calls. His cousin stops in the middle of whatever he’s saying and looks over his shoulder. “What was that you were saying about Erik being in a school play?”

Aaron groans beside him. Erik laughs and nudges his husband. And Nicky… sweet, predictable Nicky doesn’t shut up until the lights go down and the play starts.

If Andrew believed in any kind of god, this is the exact moment he would proclaim himself an atheist. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Neil is saying, a fake smile duct taped to his face. 

Nicky’s smile, on the other hand, i’s completely sincere. As is Erik’s curiosity and Aaron’s exasperation. 

Of all the theaters- Okay, there was only one theater, but of all the possible things Neil could have chosen to do with his weekend, why did it have to be this? It had been the worst kind of surprise, walking out on the street after two hours sitting still without a smoke, to see what he had thought in the beginning was a hallucination born out of lack of sleep. Andrew had schooled his face quickly, but Neil’s confused “Andrew?” had gained his family’s attention. 

“Where do you know Andrew from?” Aaron asks, eyes narrowing. 

Neil’s laugh grates against Andrew’s ears. “The library. He thought I was being too loud.”

Nicky gasps, mock offended, “Andrew!”

Andrew stays silent. Whatever pantomime this is, he wants no part in it.

“Are you from town?” Erik asks, arm around Nicky’s waist. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Neil shakes his head, another little choreographed laugh escaping from his lips as he touches the back of neck. He’s looking down. Shy. Neil is acting shy. “I’m just passing through. Hopefully, I’ll be gone by the end of the month.”

“Aw, man, really? Summer’s beautiful here.” Nicky says. His tone shifts, less sad and more amused. “But I bet Andrew can show you some cool places before you have to go.”

Oh, great. Nicky is playing matchmaker again. 

“Really,” Neil says, smiling now, and shooting Andrew a sweetly innocent look only they know is layered with amusement over the faux shyness. “He said there’s a gig next week, but otherwise he’s been a little shy about showing me the hidden pearls.” Nicky lights up like a billboard at Neil’s words, and Andrew knows he won’t be left alone about this for weeks. It  _ might  _ be worth it if it means he gets to spend more time with Neil. 

“At the Foxhole? Our friend Renee owns it, it’s going to be great!”

“Nice. Is there anything I should make sure to see before I leave?” Neil asks, and Andrew can feel all of their looks burning through his clothes and scorching marks on his skin, but he keeps his eyes on Neil’s. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s because of not wanting to meet anyone else’s eyes and take in what they’re thinking of this, or if it’s because he can’t look away. 

“Oh, I’m sure Andrew would know,” Nicky starts, before Erik breaks in.

“You should take him to the hill at the edges of town, the one with the view,” and the direct address makes Andrew look at him. Erik’s excited about this, because he knows Nicky is, but there’s also an earnesty there that’s harder to ignore. Like he thinks he knows something about Andrew. Erik’s parents have never been disapproving, but Andrew wonders, for the first time, what Erik was like before he met Nicky. Is it possible that he was closed off too, not the way Nicky used to be, but maybe like the twins? Is it himself he sees when he looks at Andrew now, asking him to show Neil around? 

“Yes,” Neil says, and it’s not that Andrew’s forgotten about him, but he had maybe forgotten this situation was still happening. Neil’s presence is like a thin film over him every time they’re together, but times like last night he can almost feel it, even when Neil’s not there. “That sounds nice.” It looks like he means it. Neil’s still a mystery, but one thing Andrew knows for sure, is that Neil’s an actor. He can’t do this right now. 

“I’ll text you,” Andrew says, and heads down the street. Nicky makes excuses to Neil before running to catch up with Andrew and going “Where have you been hiding him?” way too loud. 

_ andrew: tomorrow at 4. bee’s books and coffee _

_ neon nightmare: it’s a date _

Neil is late, which is screwing with Andrew’s plan to bait Bee into checking something in the backroom just when Neil arrived. It’s been ten minutes since he said some customer had misshelved Vuong under O, or possibly even in the science fiction section, and that someone else had been complaining about not getting an order of  _ Night sky with exit wounds,  _ and he hadn’t been able to find it. From there Bee figured these tasks, neither of which existed, should be done at the same time for convenience's sake. However stubborn Bee is about finding things and fixing customer complaints, she really should be back any second. Neil should’ve been here five minutes ago. 

The door plings exactly when Bee makes her way back to the desk. Just his luck then. She gives him a look that says she knows he’s up to something, but doesn’t say anything because of the new customer. Not that it would throw off Neil, who’s walking up to the registry. He looks windswept with messy hair, bright eyes, and red cheeks just visible over his giant scarf.

“Andrew,” he says breathlessly, and Andrew can just think  _ yeah,  _ before he comes back with the incredibly intelligent:

“You look cold.”

“It’s cold out.” 

“Why don’t you make something for the two of you, and I’ll take over here,” Bee says. He really needs to stop forgetting other people when Neil’s around. “You’re not supposed to be in today anyways.” 

“I don’t really drink coffee,” Neil says as Andrew moves behind the café counter to the machine.

“Good thing you’re not getting coffee,” Andrew doesn’t turn around, but the weight of Neil’s eyes is becoming familiar. Andrew controls the sudden urge of rolling his shoulders, taking the chocolate powder instead. “You can grab a table, I’ll bring it over so we can look at the pictures..”

There’s a scrape and then a huff. “Gotta make sure you aren’t trying to poison me.”

Andrew looks over his shoulder at Neil. He has moved one of the stools over, and the scarf is spread on the section of the counter he’s claimed, covering the pristine wood with muted orange. It looks better against the brown that it did around Neil’s neck, and that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact the skin is now bare. 

“I wouldn’t waste good poison on you.” Andrew assures him, turning his gaze back to the task at hand. 

A bark of a laugh. Explosive and snuffed out almost immediately, so fast that Andrew half wished he’d been able to turn around before it happened. “Only the bad kind then.” Neil teases.

Andrew eyes the milk before grabbing it, hoisting it so Neil can see it. “Intolerant?”

Neil hums. “Usually, but not towards milk.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, and starts heating enough of it for the two of them. “There goes my cheapest way to get rid of you.”

“Oh, making it look like an accident,” Neil muses. “Resourceful, but risky. 4 out of 10. Not the most original, but certainly excusable.”

“Did you just grade my spontaneous desire to kill you?” The motions are second nature at this point. He knows how he likes his own, and knows how it differs from what he’s making Neil. 

“And you didn’t even pass.” Neil laments. “Also, lactose intolerance can’t kill you.”

“But it can make you feel like it, which is all I need if I want to get rid of you.”

“Temporarily. And even that it’s a maybe. Plus, you said your spontaneous desire to kill me, which I need to point out, can’t be spontaneous. You threatened to kill me a bunch of times no less than two days ago.”

There’s the marshmallows and the cream. “Ah, but I didn’t say that. I  _ asked  _ if that was what you were grading me on. And from your response, it sounds like you were. First mistake, I was aiming to get rid of you, which would have been accomplished if you bolted because you felt like you were shitting your pants.” He takes the cinnamon and the chili powder from one of the cupboards, setting them aside. “Second, my desire to kill you flares back to life spontaineously whenever you say something stupid, which frankly is whenever you open your mouth.” 

“Hmmm,” The gentle tap of fingers against wood. The whirl of the machine drowning it out. “Compelling argument. 7 out of 10, then. You should always aim to kill instead of maim. Permanent solution and all that.”

“I don’t think there’s a single permanent thing about you.” 

Andrew finishes the drinks in silence after that, Neil’s gaze following each flourish and ingredient added. It’s the darkroom all over again, and yet it isn’t. There’s the soft murmur of Bee’s voice a couple of meters away. Someone trying to whisper and failing. The sound of his own movements, amplified. The pages of a book turning.

“Here,” Andrew says, offering the orange mug to Neil and keeping the black one for himself.

Neil blinks at him, down at the hot chocolate and back at him. He takes the mug, fingers curling over the space Andrew has left open but no touching. There’s a slight uptick in the corner of his mouth that tips over into a full blown out smile when he goes to grab his scarf and seems to realise the play of colors. 

Andrew takes a sip of his own drink as he reaches for his bag and walks around the counter to meet Neil, who is already moving towards one of the open tables. The chocolate is thicker than he usually takes it, weighted down by the cream and the sheer amount of topping he piled on it, but the sweetness is exactly the way he wanted it. It warms him on its way down, settling something inside him that had been rattling since that night at the church. 

Neil is sniffing his drink when Andrew sits down. “It doesn’t bite, you know.” He raises his mug, challenging. Slurps pointedly. 

The tension in Neil’s shoulder drops and he straightens in his chair. Andrew would feel midly offended at being considered less intimidating than a hot breverage, but there’s too much amusment and, fucking hell, nerves for him to even worry about that.

Whatever Andrew had been expecting, not even his mind could have conjured the surprised noise that escapes Neil’s mouth upon taking a sip. His expression is open, delighted, and Andrew is so very grateful this didn’t happen when he was standing. 

As a distraction to everything Neil, Andrew opens his bag and looks for the envelope with the photos. This is a meeting, not a hang out, after all. Neil is to make a decision and Andrew is here to lose something he shouldn’t have taken in the first place.

“Right, the photos,” Neil says, taking another sip before moving the mug out of the way. Andrew lays a small stack on the table. 

“These are from both rounds, the one you ruined and the one before.” Andrew watches Neil looking at the photographs one by one, careful to touch only the sides. There’s the shadow of Neil lighting a cigarette behind the netted separation in the confession booth, Neil in the church door, haloed by moonlight, a foggy Neil surrounded by papers and flipping off the camera, Neil striding over the cemetery to declare his love, a drenched Neil looking caught off guard and just slightly vulnerable, then drenched Neil looking like he belongs in a perfume ad while pushing his his hair back. It’s a fairly small stack of photographs. It’s a pretty high number of pictures to take of someone you don’t really know for no reason. 

Neil looks through them without speaking, without changing his expression, until he comes to the first of the ruined but salvageable photographs. He freezes, staring down at the image.

Andrew had to throw away most of the prints and film from when Neil opened the door to the darkroom, but a few of the church pictures were left with only a strange effect instead of being entirely ruined. This time Neil’s face through the netting is ashen and empty, and instead of being lit up by the warm flame of the cigarette, there’s only his face veiled by blue tendrils of smoky mist. The one under, Andrew knows, is so bright Neil’s silhouette is barely visible. His head merged entirely with the moon, framed by the slightly darker doorway. In both, he’s a ghost caught on camera, something teetering on the threshold of this world, never entirely entering. Or possibly, never entirely leaving. 

“Can I keep them?” Neil asks softly, his eyes still on the photographs. 

“They were always yours,” Andrew admits, taking a sip of his drink silently. Neil’s eyes are downcast and it’s even harder to read him like this. But his hands move the pictures again, starting over, careful with the edges.

It must be less than a minute when Neil puts the photos down and takes a sip of his own drink. The background chatter is dancing on the edges of Andrew’s perception, prodding at his attention, but Neil is sitting in front of him, drinking the stuff he made and glancing at the pictures he took, settled. The warmth of the shop has taken the tinge of red from his cheeks and his hair looks more disaster than it does disheveled. His fingertips are pink against the orange of the mug. His eyes are staring right back, no warning to prepare him for it.

It’s all so painfully real, no waking up to spare him, that for a second Andrew fully believes that Neil is meant to be here with Andrew specifically. That this isn’t a series of coincidences and the bare bones of attraction rattling in his head. That fate has decided to braid them together, and they, by their own hand and their own volition, have chosen to not yank the thread until it breaks.That Neil means to stay.

Andrew puts his empty mug down. He reaches over for the pictures, putting them back into the envelope to avoid damaging them and lets it slide back to Neil’s side of the table. Andrew should leave, with his side of the bargain complete. Another link to Neil broken, with only Renee’s gig left as an excuse. 

“Would you show me the others sometime,” Neil asks. “The pictures you take without people?”

“Why? They’re just empty places.”

“I think,” Neil says, very carefully, “that I like the way you see things.” Well. What the fuck. What’s Andrew supposed to do with that?

Neil cocks his head, rests one of his hands over the envelope and grabs his mug with the other. He doesn’t drink from it and seems to realise Andrew isn’t speaking. “You like truth, right? Looking for it, finding it. But there’s something about the… the layers? Like you see not only what’s there but what’s under. What it’s been.” Neil rubs his neck and shakes his head, as if can dislodge the idea with the movement alone. The hand goes back to the envelope. “Sorry, that’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” 

“I thought everything I said was stupid,” Neil quips, laughing at whatever expression he sees painted on Andrew’s face, or maybe just laughing at his own joke. Andrew doesn’t bother with the why, too transfixed by the way Neil’s nose scrunches up and his shoulders shake for the flash of a second. The cure is worse than the disease, though, because Neil’s bites his lip to muffle the sound and Andrew can only take so much.“I kind of have a favor to ask. It’s about figuring out the truth, in a way?” Neil looks hesitant, both hands going to the mug to take a longer sip.

Andrew waits, motioning with his hand for him to continue once the mug is back on the table. 

Neil clears his throat. “I have a, uh, a riddle. That I’m trying to solve. And it’s not going so well, and you seem the type to be good at these things.” Neil might be right. Andrew is, after all, quite enjoying figuring him out. “And you seem like you’re good with words? Reading all the time and all that.”

“I’m not.” Andrew corrects him, but Neil doesn’t still, drawing a piece of paper from his pocket and shoving it at Andrew. On it are a couple of tightly written lines of messy cursive. It’s entirely illegible, letters jumping and looping in the cramped space. Print is already hard most of the time, but this? This is excruciating to even look at. 

When no immediate explanation comes, Andrew pushes the paper back. “What the fuck does this say?”

Neil sighs. “Just read it?” Irritation bites at the heels of the question.

“I literally  _ can’t _ .” Andrew stresses. “It’s messy as fuck.” 

“Oh, okay, okay, I’ll read it.” Neil takes the paper back and grimaces at the handwriting. “Here goes: ‘just under the face of god do the wings take flight it forgets the blue _riband_ and hides green silver run first’.

“Re- what now?”

“ _Riband_.” Neil pronounces again, and Andrew places the accent just as Neil says, “It’s french for ribbon.” 

Andrew tips his chair, replaying Neil’s voice. Thinks. “And what is this supposed to be about?”

“They’re...directions. To something in town.”

Andrew lets the chair fall back down. “This is why you came here.”

“Yes. But I can’t figure it out.” Neil jams the paper back onto his pocket, no finesse in his movements. 

“Why do you need to?” Andrew asks, and upon no response, adds. “Isn’t this fucking weird?”

“She-. It’s important.” 

Neil taps the rim of his mug, eyes on the window instead of on Andrew. There’s frustration lining his shoulders and he’s slouched on his chair, the tapping of his feet in a completely different rhythim. It’s not waiting, Andrew notices, when a couple of minutes pass by and Neil doesn’t insist in an answer. He has said his piece and Andrew is free to leave if he wants to, to decline if he doesn’t feel like it. Neil isn’t backing down, but he’s giving Andrew whatever time he needs to make a choice.

“Okay.” Neil’s eyes catch his. The shoulders drop. The tapping stops. “Can you repeat it? Does it have any puntation at all?”

Neil huffs a laugh and shakes his head. He quotes the riddle again without looking at the paper, all in one breath. Andrew wonders if the grimace was more to do with having to say the thing out loud than it was about his atrocious handwriting. 

“Okay,” Andrew repeats, “Which places have you tried?”

“The church, the cemetery,” He raises one of his hands, ticking fingers off with each one. “The theater.”

Andrew cocks his head. “The places I’ve seen you at?”

Neil nods, elbows on the tables and leaning slightly forward. “Yeah, it’s the only places I could think of. I mean, gods and angels, right? For the first two, and the theater is called -”

“Apollo Theatre. Right.” Andrew frowns. “What about the library? There’s no direct god associated with it, and even if you are going to go, Athena equals books... then every single place in town would be associated with that first line one way or another.”

Neil sighs, “No, that was plain research. I’m not from here and the riddle, well, it’s old. Most towns don’t stay the same through the years and I needed to check if there were statues that were knocked down or rebranding of any business.” 

Andrew nods. He didn’t pay attention to any of the newspapers he had to reshelve, but it makes sense, with the lack of local knowledge. “You’re considering the first part, but what about the second?”

“No, I thought about it as well. Blue ribbons are competitive things now, but they used to be called  _ Cordon bleu _ and awarded to knights of a holy order.” Neil explains, shifting between accents absentmindedly. “See? Forgotten blue ribbons. And the silver green is a reference to money, so you have alms for the church, Charon’s boat for the cemetery and paying tickets for the theater.”

“How are you so sure silver green is even about money?”

Neil leans back in his chair. Looks unsure once again. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t give me all the information,” Andrew says. “Silver green could be a Harry Potter reference, a snake’s hideout clue, for all we know. Everything else is extremely elaborated to the point of being french but this, money, is the one constant.”

Neil groans. Closes his eyes and counts under his breath. Reaches fifteen before he opens them and glares at Andrew. “You’re gonna help me?”

Andrew nods, not interested in repeating himself. “As long as you let me.”

“It’s a cache,” Andrew blinks, impassive. Neil nods to himself. “There’s money inside it and it’s easily hidden, usually in a metal box. So, silver… green.”

“What about the run first?” 

“That’s a different instruction. It’s technically part of it but, it works more as a reminder.”

And Andrew knew this, heard Neil say it at the theater, truth camouflaged around the lies he was weaving. “Take the money and flee?” Andrew guesses.

“Yes, which is why I’m asking for help at all. I have to be gone by the end of the month.” 

Andrew breathes. Marks the day in his head and counts how much time he has left. “Sure. Do you want more of that?” He points at Neil's empty mug while taking his own.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He pushes the mug forward and this time, Andrew lets his fingers graze along Neil’s when taking it back. “What is it, by the way? I don’t think I’ve tried it before.”

“Mexican hot chocolate.” Andrew stands up and Neil echoes him. “You can stay here, it won’t take as long.”

“I can,” He grabs his scarf and the envelope. “But how would I know you’re not trying to use the good poison now that you know there’s money involved?”

“Knowing you, you would come back from the dead just to annoy me.” Andrew ignores Bee’s sideway glance as he rounds the counter once more. 

Neil grabs the stool again and settles down. “Only one way to find out.”

_ neon nightmare: so what do people even do at clubs _

_ andrew: dance? _

_ neon nightmare: not if i can help it _

“You can’t seriously be wearing that.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Neil would say that. It’s the same thing he always wears, which is to say baggy and washed out. He tends to wear big hoodies that make him look unbearably soft. Neither of them are soft people, but he makes Andrew forget sometimes.    


“What the fuck. You’re a fashion disaster. Let’s go ruin my reputation.”

The band’s already playing when they walk in. There’s not a large crowd, but it fills out the pit well enough, dancing with abandon under the flashing lights. 

“It really  _ is  _ a neon nightmare,” Neil says as they come up to the little desk placed right by the entrance. 

“Has Andrew been badmouthing my love child?” asks Renee with a smile. 

“I would never insult your eighties bubblegum lesbian wet dream, Renee.” He hands over the entrance fee, and she gives each of them a blue wristband. Andrew can feel the intense look Neil is giving him, but he keeps his eyes on Renee, who smiles brightly at him, and looks like she wants to say something that will nail him down. She ends up with a simple “Enjoy,” which does, he supposes, communicate everything she could want to say. 

They have to walk down a set of stairs to the dancefloor. Under the entrance area, there are diner style booths and a bar. All of it is decorated with bright neon pink and blue lights, somewhere between a fifties diner, an eighties roller skating rink, and a warehouse rave. It’s nice, in its way. He can appreciate the way it all looks washed in bright warm colors. The way Neil looks bathed in purple, pink, blue, turquoise. The way he leans closer to Andrew with glowing, alive eyes, practically asking to be photographed. 

“The blue bands! The blue  _ ribands _ !” He has to yell slightly to be heard over the music, even with their proximity. It’s probably a coincidence, but Neil looks elated with hope. 

“There’s no way of knowing they used them back in the day, but the place was definitely here.” 

Andrew’s not sure what exactly they’re looking for, but Neil’s described the way the caches usually look, so it’s more about finding a hiding place. It all feels like a mafioso soap opera, which, well, who’s to say?

There are no floorboards to check underneath of, and Andrew seriously doubts the previous owners would’ve been capable of creating a secret room that Renee wouldn’t have found by now. The main thing she’d kept as is was the bar, so Andrew heads that way, aware of Neil following close behind. 

The bar is more crowded than the upper floor had been but less so than the dancefloor is.There is a neon sign over the shelves that Andrew had always dismissed but that makes him turn slightly backwards so he can nudge Neil. Neil frowns dissolves when Andrew points at the beer bottle, wired wings blinking at each side, golden halo in the form of a cap.

"Think we can get back there?" Neil asks, trying to find the balance between screaming and shuffling close enough to Andrew without bumping into him.

It's difficult to see over the patrons at the bar, slurred words and hiccuping laughter surrounding the bartender, but Andrew doesn't need a face to recognize whose tending. Roland's style has always been flashy at the beginning of his shifts, bottles sailing from hand to hand, flames on the rims of too many glasses, and right now, it's earning him his tips.

"Yes. Keep your mouth shut and stay close." Andrew strides forward, confidence in each step. Too many waitering jobs to forget how to not be knocked over. 

Neil, on the other hand, stumbles as they make it to the bar, pushed over by someone behind him. The sudden contact is shocking, Neil's hands finding purchase at the edges of the counter, inadvertently caging Andrew in. Andrew takes the weight. Doesn't budge under it. Waits because, as expected, Neil moves backwards as soon as he’s caught his balance, his breath harsh, hands falling back to his sides.

Andrew snaps his fingers to catch Roland's eyes. 

"Andrew! Hadn't seen you in a while, what can I get you?" And before Andrew can answer. " _ Both _ of you."

Neil doesn't answer. Roland winks at him before leaning over towards Andrew, dropping his voice to not be overheard. "My break is in an hour, if you're staying." His eyes shine with the lights and the corner of his mouth curls into an easy smile. "If you're sharing."

"No to both," Andrew says. "I need to use the backroom."

Roland laughs, head thrown back, and leans even closer. Andrew can feel Neil shifting next to him. Glances at him. It's hard to tell with the lights, but there’s the shadow of a frown etched on his face. It's not directed at Andrew or Roland, but at the closing space over the bar. Confusion. His own body is acting as a barrier between the crowd and Andrew, keeping the distance.

"And you won't even invite me," Roland shakes his head, grinning as he turns towards Neil and passes Andrew the keys without looking. "Congrats. He's  _ good _ . Take your time, the handcuffs are-"

Andrew drags Neil away by the collar of his shirt before Roland can finish that sentence. His laughter follows them as they round towards the metal door. Andrew frees his hand to fit in the key, shouldering the door open when it gets stuck, like it usually does.

Andrew hits the light switch as they enter, and Neil closes the door behind them. There are three shelves full of things to look through. They start.

"Found the handcuffs," Neil says, a considerable amount of time later. Andrew turns, gets an eyeful of Neil holding the padded cuffs with one of his fingers, resting his weight against the metal shelf Andrew has used said handcuffs on, and turns back around. "You know this won't hold for long, right? One good tug and they would fall apart. Won't even have to struggle all that much."

Andrew looks at the ceiling. Thinks about every single choice that has made him an unwilling part of this conversation.

"I bet that I could get out of them in less than a minute," Andrew looks back at the box in his hands. Doesn't think about- "Come on, let's try it."

"They aren't meant to hold for long, Neil." Andrew spells out. "If whoever you are using them with feels like they have to struggle that much, you probably shouldn't be getting them off."

The click of the handcuffs being put down. A few more minutes of silence. There's nothing in this box either.

"You and Roland?" Neil asks.

Andrew huffs. "Not in a relationship. But we do this sometimes."

Neil hums.  _ Hums _ . 

They don't end up finding anything in the backroom. And they both ignore Roland's comments as he serves them their drinks.

Andrew downs his, while Neil pours his out on the ground. “Subtle,” Andrew says. They keep looking. There’s a bathroom that looks better than expected from a place like this. This is because Renee fixed it up when she took over, which means the room is too new to be keeping the cache. The backstage area is tiny and quickly written off as well.

Back in the pit, it seems like the set is closing up. The vocalist screams his throat out on a refrain, the crowd is even more frantic, and a smoke machine is going off. Andrew draws out his camera from where it’s been safe in an inner pocket of his leather jacket. He’s standing in one of the corners by the stage, and frames both the band and the crowd and takes a quick shot, before changing settings. He extends the shutter speed for as long as he thinks he can hold still, and waits. He imagines how it will turn out. A slightly blurry band playing for a sea of people, no longer individual bodies but one creature moving together, the different lights and the smoke moving with them. 

“You can take one,” Neil says, when he lowers the camera again. “I know you wanted to earlier.” 

“I just did.”

“Of me.” Andrew turns to him. He looks startlingly sober in contrast to the dancers, to how Andrew feels. For Neil, this has been a disappointment. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” Neil’s mouth twists into a smirk. “If I can take one of you. Truth for truth, right?” 

“Truth for truth,” Andrew says before changing the settings back and raising the camera to his face. He looks at Neil through the viewfinder, watches his smirk turn into an ear splitting grin, the way colored shadows appear and disappear under the changing lights.  _ Click.  _ He hands the camera over.

Neil’s movements are clumsy and unfamiliar compared to his own, but when he looks through the viewfinder Andrew is reminded of a sniper staring down the sight of a gun. Then Neil screws up his face in mock concentration. 

“I need to get this light right, catch that glint of gold in your eyes,” he says. “They’re quite striking, you know,” and takes the picture. Andrew really hopes his face doesn’t do anything incredibly stupid. He feels suddenly hot and flustered under the stage lights. The crowd is suddenly oppressive, even when he’s not in it. He leans in to speak straight into Neil’s ear. “Do you want a smoke?” Neil nods, and they leave out a side door.

The night outside is dark and fresh. It must have rained while they were inside. Wet pavement shines under the streetlight, and Andrew is thankful for the lungfuls of outside air before he lights his cigarette. He offers one to Neil, who shakes his head before fishing up a packet of Pall Malls. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Pall Malls? You really must do this as repentance.” 

“Perhaps. It reminds me of my mom. Why do you smoke then, if it’s not to die?” And well, there’s Andrews go to snarky answer taken from him. 

“Started to piss off people who aren’t around anymore. Now it just calms me down.” The answer is, in a way, as horrible as it’s true, that it’s to survive, or at least used to be. 

“Is it your mom then,” he continues, “who’s left the riddle?”

Neil takes a drag before answering. They watch the smoke make its way towards the sky.

“Yeah. I don’t think she anticipated not to be here. Just made it as a private guide or precaution or something. Or maybe she thinks I’m smarter than I am.”

“Thinks? Did she leave you?” Neil’s laugh comes out smoke dry and bitter. 

“No, I left her. Buried her and went on.” The way he says buried makes Andrew think he means it literally. That Neil dug a hole himself, and left this no doubt fucked up mother there to rot. Good. 

“What do you mean went on?”

Neil looks up, the cigarette burning away in his hand. “Kept running without her.”

“Run first.” He recalls.

“Yeah.” 

Andrew looks at him, in profile, the club’s music muted. Wonders. “How long?” 

Another drag. “She took me away when I was five, and I’ve been alone since I was seventeen.” Neil admits, closing his eyes. 

“I was sixteen when the car accident with my mom happened.” Andrew offers and Neil’s eyes open.

“Shit.” He looks back at Andrew, no pity found. “Did it smoke?”

“What?”   


“The car.” Neil clarifies, because of course he would.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Specific smell, right?”

“Kinda like Pall Malls.”

A tiny breath of a laugh. “Yeah.” 

They smoke in silence. Andrew tries to avoid drawing in the smell of Neil’s cigarette. That he apparently smokes because of a smoking car. That possibly contained or didn’t contain Neil’s dead mother. It’s familiar, the feeling of looking in a mirror and realising your reflection sees something else entirely from you. One of those things other people find odd, but is entirely engrained in Andrew’s world. 

In the end, Neil throws his cigarette to the ground and grounds it out with the sole of his shoe, before turning to Andrew. They stand there, looking at each other, for a small eternity, before Neil speaks.

“Yes or no?” 

“To what,” says Andrew, because no matter how much he wants to say yes he’s not an idiot. 

“I want to kiss you.” It’s not entirely as much of a surprise as he would’ve thought. Neil is cautious by nature, but has decided to trust Andrew with his secrets, which seems to be much more private to him than what’s about to happen. This will not end well, Andrew knows. But there’s no reason they shouldn’t have it for now.

“Come here,” Andrew says, before taking a deep drag of his cigarette. Neil’s eyes glint before he leans in and covers Andrew’s mouth with his own. Andrew breathes the smoke of his perfectly good Marlboro red into Neil’s mouth. They part so Neil can exhale. He grins, always understanding the little things Andrew does, and his chest feels close to bursting. He drops the cigarette and takes Neil’s face between his hands. And fucking finally, Andrew and Neil are kissing.


	3. Chapter 3

The end of April is quickly closing in when Andrew figures it out. He’s not certain, can’t be without seeing Neil’s reaction to it, but the probability is too high to ignore. To keep ignoring. Andrew has enough self awareness to accept he has been delaying telling Neil, forcing himself to find the close but wrong answers instead. Andrew just…. Andrew wants him to stay. But the consequences of trying to keep someone while hiding from them are too steep. Andrew learned that lesson years ago. He doesn’t need a re-do. 

He steps out of the shower and takes his phone to call Neil, but finds a message from him already there. It’s a voice note, because Neil rarely texts him now if he can help it, either calling or doing this instead. He turns the volume to the max, puts the phone down on the side table and presses play. Starts changing carefully to hear Neil’s voice over the rustle of his own clothes.

“I think I found it!” Neil says, his breathing harsh, the sound of the street a backdrop. “I’ll be at your place in fifteen, it’s on the outskirts of town and I’m not completely sure, but it has to be it, right? We’ve looked everywhere else.”

The message is from ten minutes ago, which means Neil is already outside, waiting. Andrew doesn’t text back, busies himself with putting his armbands and his boots on, taking the car keys on his way to the door. 

He leaves the camera inside. If Neil is right, Andrew doesn’t want to take a picture of his back as he leaves. Doesn’t want to give Neil the possibility of asking for it. Of asking for another shot of Andrew, another shot of them, another shot of anything when Neil isn’t even going to be here by the time he can print them. His memory is enough. Has to be enough for this.

If Andrew’s right, maybe he won’t regret leaving it behind. 

“Walk me through it,” Andrew says as he gets out of the car.

The warehouse is standing. That’s really all Andrew can say about it. The paint is a combination of rust and a myriad of colors, old logos fading on top of each other. It does look like a place no one would bother looking, where a dead woman might stash their last ditch at hope.

Neil walks a few steps in front of him, looking right back, not worried about bumping into anything. Turns out Andrew’s protective streak does extend to inanimate objects, as long as you’re not Aaron. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say it extends if you’re Neil. 

“Okay,” Neil claps his hand, as if he doesn’t already have Andrew’s undivided attention. “I’m about to blow your mind-”

“Doubtful.” 

Neil rolls his eyes, “Shh,” Andrew raises an eyebrow and Neil laughs, unabashedly, as he only seems to do when they are alone. “I think this might actually be it, okay?”

And there it is. The layer of nervousness Neil thinks he can hide, even now. It has been getting more obvious, the past few days, with the countdown in their head approaching zero. With each leap of faith Neil takes, Andrew’s fear of heights grows. It has been chipping at Neil, slowly but persistently, each single drop. Andrew knows there’s a breaking point and right now, he feels like he’s standing on the edge, seeing concrete where Neil recklessly hopes for anything but. 

Andrew wants to catch him. Doesn’t want him to hit the ground running.

“Okay,” Andrew breathes. He’s here now. It counts for something. It does. “Explain your brilliance.” 

Neil smiles. Andrew should’ve brought the camera. “Did you know this used to be a Redbull warehouse once upon a time? It changed hands after they changed locations to something closer to the main highway. Others have used it, but it’s stood empty for years. We’re lucky that we don’t have to break into an actual functional building.” 

“The point, Neil.” 

“I’m getting there! The time checks out with what we know about my mom and it also, if she was thinking about it still existing by the time we got here, fits with the things in the riddle.”

Andrew tries to imagine the building as it must have been. Bright and alive. It’s difficult, when all that he has to go on is this bastardized corpse. He thinks he might have an idea of where Neil is going with this, but he lets him continue.

“The gods thing makes sense if you think about Zeus, which is like, easiest option.” Neil looks expectant, walking slower.

Andrew sighs. “The bull. One of Zeus' forms.”

“Exactly! And the wings? ‘Red bull gives you wings’,” Neil doesn’t quite sing it, his words stretching with the tune even so, making the reference clear. It’s not endearing. “Mom made me learn that type of stuff in different languages, you know? They get stuck in your head even when you don’t want to.”

He’s close enough to touch. Half a smile on his face, giddy at the lack of rebuttal. It makes some sense. In the too far fetched way things make sense to them on this chase.

“The others are easy. The money is still the money and well, an energy drink that has blue packaging and sponsors sports teams?” Neil turns back around, his back to Andrew and standing in front of the door to the warehouse. It dwarfs them, the sheer size of it this close, and Andrew doesn’t think he’s imagining the trembling of Neil’s hands when he pushes them open.

There’s nothing. Sunlight through cracked windows but not even one single shadow. Not apart from the two they make, frozen on the threshold. Andrew’s eyes scan the place rapidly. There are no machines to hide behind or rackety stairs to climb. Cement under their shoes. Steel walls too thin to store anything at all. The howling of the wind. 

There’s space and them.

There’s Neil. 

His hand is on the door and his eyes are wide. Unbearably young against the nothingness. And then he smiles. Sharp. Breaking open the illusion and pasting something else in its place. Something Andrew remembers. Something that’s not Neil, but that Neil wears all the same. 

Neil strides forward, letting go of the door. Andrew shadows him, hearing the door slam shut behind them. It echoes. It makes Neil spin in his place, alert, as if he had forgotten he isn’t alone. His hands are fists at each side of his body, tense instead of defeated.

“It was supposed to be here,” Neil mutters, “There’s literally nowhere else to look. This was the last place and I’m out of time, out of money. Maybe I chose the wrong town to begin with.” Andrew should have known that Neil was never the ghost, should tell him that he’s not being chased by one either. “He is going to find me _._ I need to leave.”

Wild eyes catch his and Neil seems to have caught on to the fact that Andrew hasn’t moved, that he’s standing between Neil and the only exit.

“Neil,” Andrew keeps his voice level, his eyes on Neil’s. “No one is after you.” And because there is only one way for Andrew to know if he’s telling the truth. “Nathan Wesninski is dead.”

The plain horror and fear in Neil’s face, and the step back he takes, are confirmation enough. He gets hold of his expression a second too late, but it’s useless, the rest of his body betrays him. 

Andrew continues, voice louder, trying to reach over the panic. “I know he was your father, him and his people were put in jail more than five years ago, okay? Someone stabbed him there. He’s dead.”

Neil shakes his head, another step back. “I never told you that. I never told him his name. I never told you who was after me.”

“You didn’t need to,” Andrew explains. “Red hair and blue eyes aren’t that common-”

It’s the wrong thing to say. The worst thing to say. Neil stumbles, doesn’t fall, but his hands go to his hair and he closes his eyes. 

“He’s dead, Neil, no one is after you,” Andrew walks forward slowly. “You could stay here-”

“His people, Lola, they-”

“Dead, Neil, or in prison for life. No one even knew you existed. You’re safe-”

Neil laughs. Shakes his head. “I’m _never_ going to be safe, Andrew. I was supposed to keep running. My mom was right-”

“She wasn’t-”

“ _You_ found out,” Neil accuses. “I stop following her advice and this happens. I get caught-”

“You’re not caught, the police isn’t looking for you, your father’s people can’t get to you-”

“Then move.”

Andrew blinks. This can’t be happening. “Neil-”

“Andrew,” There’s an edge to his words, barely hanging by a thread. “Move.”

Andrew breathes. Moves one foot and then the other. “Stay.”

Neil stops beside him. “Goodbye, Andrew.”

The footsteps continue. Andrew can’t turn back.

The door slams shuts once again.

There’s space and there’s Andrew.

_4 missed calls from andrew_

_andrew: it’s safe here. he’s dead_

_andrew: just let me know you’re ok_

It’s radio silence for three days before Andrew finds himself in the darkroom again. The roll is packed with Neil, which makes it hard not to remember the last time he was developing. What’s almost worse than seeing all of the way too fond shots of Neil, is seeing the ones of Andrew himself, and the odd ones of them together.

It starts off with cache stakeouts. Neil at the Foxhole, hued in bright colors and incredibly alive even though they weren’t there to dance. In the one Neil took of Andrew he can’t even pretend he doesn’t look flushed in spite of his default empty expression. Neil standing in front of a window of the town’s haunted house. Neil sitting on the edge of the pit in the skate park, taken from below so it’s just boy and cloudy skies. Andrew sprawled on the bottom of said pit and glaring upwards. Neil in a blue hoodie in front of a graffitied wall at the park, both bringing out his eyes in an electric fashion. Shadow-Neil in the cave, and another where he holds a lighter up to his face, and it reflects off the water on the cave walls. Neil astride the diving board at the local pool after hours, the water lighting him up from below and projecting patterns across his skin. 

Then there’s a picture of Neil standing at the viewpoint Erik had suggested. There was really no reason to take him there, but they’d still gone. It was a steep hike up a creek, and accordingly Neil had loved it and Andrew had suffered in silence. It had been worth it to see the view. Maybe not so much the view itself as watching Neil watch it. All of the town could be seen, the place where Andrew had called home since he’d been sixteen, where Neil had stayed way longer than planned. The picture shows Neil standing over the town, watching it with a slightly strange expression. Wistfulness? Regret? The only thing Andrew knows for sure is that it didn’t make a difference in the end. 

Next there’s one Nicky snatched of them playing video games in his living room. Neil’s mouth is open, clearly in the middle of some scathing comment, and Andrew is rolling his eyes. Their knees are touching. 

Andrew, splayed out on white sheets with his head thrown back, taken about an hour after the sixth time they got off. After cleaning up and having a moment alone, they’d reconvened in bed. In the picture, Andrew’s messy hair is slightly out of frame, and his face is striped by sunrays through blinds. It’s a smidge blurry. It’s surreal to see himself like this, wide-open and vulnerable, in soft yellow light. He thinks he understands what Neil meant the first time he saw the pictures Andrew had taken of him. It’s way kinder, allowing him to appear way cleaner, than any of the self portraits he’s taken. Mostly, he remembers the way Neil had looked, crouched over him and laughing, before Andrew had stolen back the camera to put it away and kiss him. 

A shot of Neil with a daisy tucked behind his ear, glaring at the camera. One from the same day at the park of Neil climbing a tree, then jumping from it like a spider. 

Neil grinning devilishly at a guy at the pharmacy (out of frame, thank you very much, Andrew had learned), because he kept asking for green medicine. There’s even a pained Wymack in the background, on break from the Nike store and checking up on what the fuck Andrew was doing sneaking around with his camera. It had been a kind of weird way to introduce him to Neil, but definitely representative. 

And scattered in between, a dozen shots of Andrew at work at the library and Bee’s bookstore café. Listening to audiobooks behind the counter. Telling off some guy using the library computers for unseemly purposes. A kid sitting with his back to the camera, and Andrew in profile, helping him with something, with the friendliest expression he’s ever seen on himself in public. Andrew making coffee, Andrew Andrew Andrew. More pictures than he’s ever taken of himself. 

His favorite is one where Neil had turned the camera and taken a picture of both of them on the roof of Andrew’s apartment building. Without a viewfinder it’s a little wonky and wrong, but with Andrew’s hand on Neil’s neck, Neil’s wide smile, and the night sky behind them, they look...together. Andrew had taken a more artsy self timer one after, of their legs dangling at the edge, but he likes Neil’s better. 

There are two loud knocks on the door, before Kevin’s unmistakable voice comes through. 

“Andrew, I need to close up! And you need to stop fucking moping.”

“Five minutes,” he answers. More knocks. The door’s not even locked. Andrew is impressed by the show of restraint. 

“I’ve solved three entire crosswords waiting for you to be done, but I really need to lock up before the alarm system goes on!”

Crosswords. Andrew finishes up as quickly as he can, and opens the door to find Kevin with an impatient air around him. 

“Thanks for waiting,” Andrew says, ignoring Kevin’s snort that’s somewhere between annoyance and surprise. “I need a favor.”

Half an hour later they’re in Kevin and Aaron’s living room, waiting for pizza to arrive. Aaron’s out with Katelyn, so it’s just them and the big emptiness Andrew takes with him everywhere these days. He’s given Kevin the bare bones. Not who Neil is running from, or that he’s doing it at all, but the cache, and that he got the riddle from his mother. 

“So how does it go?” Kevin asks. Andrew starts reciting, but is soon interrupted. 

“I think I have to write it down if I’m supposed to be of any help,” Kevin says, and goes to scavenge for an empty sheet of paper and a pen on the kitchen counter. Andrew passes him his glasses before he starts again, the riddle so familiar now he’s sure he would’ve remembered it even without his eidetic memory. Kevin reads it back to him sentence by sentence to make sure it’s right, and stares at it for barely a minute before clearing his throat. 

“Uh, Andrew, this might sound stupid,” He hesitates, pushing the glasses back with the back of his knuckle, “but have you considered dad’s store?” Andrew can only stare. The winged goddess, Nike. Victory. Blue ribbons and sport. Neil hadn’t been wrong about that, it seems.

“Nike, the goddess,” he says again. 

“Of victory, yes.” Kevin looks back down as the paper, “And I thought the french was weird, but,” He grabs his phone and looks for something. Andrew doesn’t have time for this. “Here,” Kevin turns the screen around. Jean Moreau is standing next to a headless statue. A winged statue. He looks up at Kevin when he keeps talking. “That’s the Louvre.”

He needs to let Neil know. Frowns and looks back at Kevin. “You said it was stupid.” Because there’s clearly something more.

“Well, yeah,” says Kevin. “There’s also. Do you know how Neil had written the riddle down?”

“In one long line.” 

“Was that his version of it or his mom’s?”

“His. Fucking horrible cursive.”

“Okay so, that’s the missing part. Look,” Kevin says, and puts the paper on the table in front of them. Andrew leans forward. Kevin’s handwriting is fairly friendly, the spaces between the words large. He’s written each sentence as a line, probably as he heard it.

_just under the face of god_

_do the wings take flight_

_it forgets the blue riband_

_and hides green silver_

_run first_

Kevin picks up the pen and underlines the first word of each line. Andrew wants to strangle something. _Just do it and run._

Andrew blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “That’s the stupidiest fucking thing I have ever seen.” 

Kevin laughs.

_andrew, voice note: kevin figured it out. meet me at wymack’s as soon as you can._

Neil is late. Andrew’s on his fourth cigarette, which means he’s been waiting for more than fifteen minutes, but possibly less if you take stress into account. He’s stood against the side of the department store, leaning against the wall, and not feeling very James Dean at all. 

Maybe Neil isn't coming at all. There’s no reason to believe he might. The phone not being disconnected means nothing when all his calls and messages have gone unanswered. It’s Andrew’s own leap of faith. He wants Neil to stay, but it’s not even about what he wants at this point. This is something that is Neil’s. Something that belongs to him. Something that can help keep him safe. 

He finishes the pack, the sky darkening, and checks his phone. Nothing. 

When he looks up, Neil is there. He didn’t hear him coming. There are bags under his eyes and his mouth is a straight line, no expression coming forth as he stares back. He looks tired, washed out, and Andrew wants him all the same. 

“Well?” Neil says, hands going to his jacket’s pockets. “Where is it?” 

Andrew’s throat is dry. He clears it. “Come on.”

“Explain first.” He looks over Andrew’s head, at the store, a frown on his face. He’s trying to figure it out on his own.

Andrew does. Neil doesn’t look amused. When he gets to the last part, Neil sighs.

“I did tell you she liked those slogans,” He straightens up, shoulders set. “Let’s see if you were right.” 

Wymack lets them roam the store, keeping an eye on them and offering to reach places for them. Andrew's turning a corner when a sign catches his eye. He calls out to Neil. And when the handle doesn’t turn, to Wymack.

“Jesus Christ, of course it would be there.” Wymack takes out his keys, unlocking the door but not moving, blocking it.

Neil frowns but waits. Wymack sighs. “There’s a reason this is staff only. That’s where the heating and electricity system are for the whole department store, not only this store.” His eyes go from Andrew’s to Neil’s. “Be careful and don’t break anything that can get me sued.”

They don’t discuss it, but Neil doesn’t protest to Andrew following. Andrew tries not to read into it, being careful with the steps as they climb down. 

“I checked,” Neil murmurs, “He’s been dead for years. _Years_.” 

Andrew nods, even though Neil is leading and can’t see him. There’s an elation in Neil's tone that Andrew doesn’t dare break.

They reach the ground floor before Neil continues. “I thought he was immortal,” A laugh, disbelieving. “Well, I thought he was going to outlive me, which was the same to me. Especially when they got mom. I never told you and I guess it doesn’t matter now, but I never actually saw him that time. We got away before Lola could pass us over. I only have vague memories of him. Mom said I looked like him. She didn’t like that.”

Andrew clenches his jaw to not interrupt. Concentrates on the sound of Neil’s voice over the humming of the heater. He’s not actually searching anything. Doesn’t want to divide his attention. Doesn’t think he could.

“The papers had him on the first page. The Butcher of Baltimore. So many times, his face, _my_ face. No wonder you noticed. I'm surprised it didn’t happen before.”

“That’s not your face,” Andrew says, and means it.

Neil turns around. Defeat makes him smaller. “Andrew, you figured it out because I look like him.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t look like him. I said it wasn’t your face. Aaron says we have his mom’s eyes. That doesn’t make _my_ eyes _hers_.” Andrew doesn’t keep the anger at bay. Let’s Neil see it, feel it on the tone of this voice. “You’re not him, Neil.”

Neil shakes his head and the movement is almost fond. “You really believe that.”

“It’s not about believing, Neil. We are not that type of people. It’s about truth.”

Neil sighs. He looks away, eyes widening at something. Andrew follows his gaze and sees it. A small old cabinet behind a broken pane on the floor. The handles are tied together with a blue ribbon.

Once they make it back to the top, Andrew realises that he has finally done it. The last thread tying him to Neil has snapped. Whatever they do after this, it’s in their hands.

He has to try. 

Andrew is hyper aware of Kevin and Wymack watching, but he still reaches for Neil, who nods, and lays a hand on his neck like a weight. He has to say the right thing to keep Neil, and it’s coming down on him. This moment just keeps happening, the seconds keep passing with them standing there looking at each other, and he has to say the right thing. Or maybe it doesn’t matter what he says, just that he says it. Neil will understand, no matter what.

“Come home with me,” Andrew murmurs, not sure exactly what he means by home, except that it means _stay._ “We’re cooking at Nicky and Erik’s tonight.” Neil smiles, so good at reading between Andrew’s lines without assuming too much. 

“Yes,” Neil simply says. 

Andrew opens the door without knocking, as Nicky always says they should. _This is still the place you grew up,_ he will say, as if Andrew and Aaron hadn’t lived other places most of their lives. As if it had always been the three of them in one happy family. 

The house smells of dinner already, a mix of spices that means all of them are cooking. They find Aaron crimping the edges of a pie crust, and Kevin finishing up a salad in the kitchen. There’s a simmering pot on the stove that’s probably Nicky’s, and the oven wafts the smell of fresh bread. Erik’s seele.

Andrew leaves Neil in the kitchen, and goes to find Nicky, who’s setting the table, and positively lights up when he sees him come in.

“Have your moping days ended? Did you get the boy? Can we actually party because the love of your life is back in your life so I can embarrass you as I should. This has been holding me back, Andrew, okay? You know this. ” And well, it’s a little much, but his heart is in the right place.

“Let him say hello first,” says Erik, who looks at least as smug as Nicky, if not more. 

There’s a yell from the kitchen; “He got the boy!” Neil. It’s followed by scuffling sounds, but Andrew leaves it be and helps Nicky finish up before going to check on them. 

The conversation makes him stop before he entirely reaches the kitchen. 

“-that my mom used to make. And Aaron’s making the twin’s mom’s raspberry pie. We do this every now and then. The combo works out weirdly well.” Kevin’s voice, followed by Neil.

“What does Andrew make?”

Aaron’s the one to answer. “He says he doesn’t have any parents to remember, but he always makes a batch of Bee’s hot chocolate at the end of the night.”

"Do you wanna make something next time?” Kevin asks. 

“She didn’t really cook a lot,” Neil says, “my mom. And she wasn’t...good. I think.” A pause. “She made cornish pasties sometimes. When she missed home.”

“My mom wasn’t good either, most of the time,” says Aaron, which he’s never said outright to Andrew. “But it’s not like I can forget her? I just, I went to therapy for years to undo the damage she’d done, but once a month I make her pie recipe, and both of those things feel right?” 

Andrew waits another second before entering. All of them look up at him, but Aaron’s the one who looks most taken aback by his sudden appearance. Andrew doesn’t know what to say to him, but he nods, which seems to be enough, because Aaron doesn’t close down. He goes back to making the pie filling without comment. 

Neil, whose face is shining in contentment, drifts over to Andrew, who snakes an arm around his waist, not caring if Kevin and Aaron sees. Neil is here, and that already reveals everything.

He makes his batch of cocoa when the kitchen’s craze has died down, taking it to the table when everything is already waiting. He sits down next to Neil, and doesn’t think that it is only the hot chocolate that makes him feel at home.

Andrew comes back from the bathroom to Neil, with his most charming fake smile directed at Nicky in the kitchen. “Could we take some pie with us,” he’s saying. “It’s been an emotional day, and I’d like some rest, but I know Andrew wouldn’t miss dessert for the world.”

Nicky makes a sympathetic noise and puts a hand on Neil’s shoulder. “Of course, honey, I’ll find you a box.”

“Fucking manipulative little shit,” Andrew says in an undertone when they’re in the car again, going home. Going home together. He doesn’t know if Neil plan’s to stay with him, but he’s staying around and that’s really all he needs to know. 

Neil makes hot chocolate in Andrew’s kitchen while the pie reheats in the oven. Andrew watches him move around in the space that’s his, and wonders if it’s Neil’s too now. Realises it’s stupid to wonder.

“Where will you stay?” Neil looks up at him and smiles, and Andrew knows he will never be tired of this.

“With you, for now. I’ll figure something out with the living and the working thing. I’ll stay.”

“Okay,” he says, because it is. 

“Of course, you’re not getting rid of me even if I move out.” 

“Okay.” 

“I need a favour though.”

“The fuck.”

“Was that an envelope with prints I saw in your car?”

“Probably.”

“Nice. I stole it,” says Neil, and draws it forth from his hoodie pocket. He takes out the stack and sorts quickly through them, before choosing two and putting them on the fridge. It’s them on the roof, twice over. 

Andrew steps forward. “Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

He puts his hands in Neil’s hoodie pocket, and kisses him. He tastes of cocoa, the sweet kind Andrew makes for himself. Neil’s hands cards through his hair, and Andrew’s aware of every single cell of his body, and he’s aware of how all of those cells are painfully alive, and he’s aware of every place he’s touching Neil. The warmth of him, the smell of his sweat, the way his tongue glides against Andrew’s, the way his lower lip gives between Andrew’s teeth. The way he feels steady and safe in spite of his sharp edges. 

They break apart, foreheads touching and chests heaving. “Always yes,” Neil says, which is a fucking stupid thing to say, “don’t want you to find another muse;” which is almost as stupid of a concept. 

“That’s entirely unrelated,” he says.

“Yeah,” Neil says, “but I want all of it. With you.”

They take their mugs up to the roof and sit close together, legs intertwined. They must make a good motif like this. Two boys on cement with the entire night sky glittering above them, and yet they’re mostly looking at each other, like the most wonderful part of the universe is that they’re there. Together. 


End file.
